


Rough Trade

by DachOsmin



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Choking, Class Differences, Dubious Consent, Glove Kink, Identity Porn, Leather Kink, M/M, Prostitution, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Vortigern meets Arthur in a brothel, andwants. And what Vortigern wants, Vortigern gets.





	Rough Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



Vortigern meets Arthur on a chill day just before the break of spring, the fog rolling in off the river and the smoke of the cookfires rendering everything in the city a uniform shade of grey.

He’d woken that morning feeling stifled, rather than comforted, by the thick walls of his tower. Perhaps it was the long months spent confined by the winter’s snows, or perhaps the grey sky had darkened his mood and reminded him of things better left forgotten.

Whatever the cause, as the sun sets for the evening he finds himself seized with the need to leave the keep and put away the weight of kingship for a few hours. He can walk the streets of his kingdom nameless and faceless: go places the ghosts of the castle can’t follow him.

He keeps his clothing as is, for the most part: a black velvet tunic and matching trousers, soft as ravens’ wings. Over them he pulls on plain black leather boots, well sealed to keep out the muck of the lower city. He leaves off his circlet. It isn’t much of a disguise, but there isn’t much need for one. There are enough lordlings and jumped-up merchants eager to curry favor by imitating the look of the king these days.

He takes ten trusted guards; they’re silent behind him as he strolls through the servants gates and into the narrow streets of the city.

Vortigern walks aimlessly, enjoying the thrill of his newfound anonymity. He should have tried this years ago.

The buildings crowd up around him in a haphazard jumble and block out the little sun that’s left. Upper floors hang out over the street precariously, propped up with stilts and buttresses. The streets wind back and forth with little rhyme and reason to their path.

The slush of a late snowfall clogs the gutters and congeals into black ice between the crevices of the cobblestones. It would be an annoyance if he were riding or running in haste, but at a leisurely stroll it has a satisfying crunch beneath the heel of his boots.

Between the late hour and the foul weather, few townspeople are out. There are a few desultory beggars and a handful of soot-stained laborers hurrying home. There are other, shadier characters hanging in the shadows of the alleys and the eaves- but even incognito, him and his guards are eleven men strong and grimly armed. The pickpockets and the footpads let them be.

Other than these occasional wary glances, no one gasps or bows or runs from his presence. It all feels like a delightful secret: he could have any of these people dragged before his throne in chains and executed. He could have their families killed before their very eyes as they beg for mercy. He could destroy every inch of their lives. Yet they walk by him with nary a glance, none of them suspecting him in the least.

He’s so taken by the novelty of anonymity that he’s hit with an unpleasant jolt when someone finally does call out to him. “Oi, handsome!”

He turns with a grimace.

But it’s not some sycophant or a dissatisfied courtier. It’s just a slip of a girl, barely Catia’s age if that. And from the flimsy shreds of red satin wrapped in the approximation of a dress, she’s a whore.

He raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting this.

Encouraged, she licks her lips and cants her hip in his direction. “You look lonely, soldier.” She gestures above her, at a worn and weathered sign painted with a lewd name and several anatomically dubious illustrations. “We could take care of you tonight, you and all your boys.”

The windows of the building are shuttered against the cold, but he can hear raucous laughter coming from the ground floor and see honeyed candlelight through the slats of the upper windows.

Vortigern tilts his head, considering. A brothel. Disgusting. And yet…

It wasn’t what he had intended, but there’s some level of curiosity there, and though he hates to admit it, an illicit thrill at the thought of it: some whore could be fucked by a king without even knowing it.

He offers the woman by the door a thin smile and steps by her, pushing the door open and entering the brothel, his men following behind him silently.

The heat hits him like a physical wall after the chill of the streets. There’s a fire roaring in the hearth and candelabras hammered to the walls, warming the air to a sultry temperature that sets him sweating underneath the weight of his velvet doublet. The scent is the next thing he notices- a heady mix of wine, musk, and cheap jasmine oil, altogether enough to make his head spin like some strange northern magic.

And then of course there are the women. Dozens of them, crowding the room in a riot of gaudy satins. They’re pathetic creatures, the lot of them: painted with garish cakes of white lead and carmine, dressed in lewd costumes that leave nothing to the imagination. They all turn as one at the creak of the door with predatory gleams in their eyes, and then they’re on him on him. They fawn at him, they ply at his hands, his biceps, they crowd about him like cringing dogs, eager for a treat. They whisper all manner of sweet nothings and lewd promises in his ears, each one blending into the next until he cannot tell how many there are, or where one begins and the next ends.

Perhaps this was a mistake. He’s of half a mind to set his guards on the whores and be done with the whole charade when he sees the boy- and then all he can do is stare. The women melt away. There is nothing and only him and the boy.

He’s leaning against the hearth, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the proceedings with narrowed eyes. He’s broad of chest and fine of feature, with a shock of golden hair glimmering in the light of the hearth. Not a boy in truth, but Vortigern can tell from the way he holds himself that he’s on the cusp of adulthood.

His mind goes, of all places, to Uther. He knows it’s beyond absurd to compare a king eighteen years dead to this whore’s get. And besides, they look nothing alike.

But that sense of power, of nobility is there, shining all the brighter despite the tawdriness of their surroundings. A wolf among dogs.

A cold anger stirs in the pit of his stomach- he’d come here to get away from Uther’s ghost. His brother haunts his dreams and his waking moments both; must he contend with Uther’s shade here, of all places? Can he not have even this respite?

But then the boy glares back at him with a challenging jut of his chin, and an idea comes to mind. If he cannot escape the past why not face it head on? Why not conquer it?

The women continue to fawn, but he ignores them, weaving through the crowd to find a rickety table at the edge of the room. He seats himself in one of the chairs and gestures the boy over with a sharp flick of his wrist.

The boy frowns, but he comes, leaning against the wall across from Vortigern with an insolent slouch. “I’m not a dog. I don’t come when called.”

Vortigern declines to comment that that’s exactly what he’s just done. He offers the boy a benign smile. “What’s your name, lad?”

The boy’s brows curl in suspicion. “Arthur. What’s it to you?”

Oh, but this is too perfect. Arthur. He rolls it around in his mouth, hard against his palate and soft on the hiss of his teeth. The name of Uther’s lost son. The gods have given him this opportunity as a gift, tailor-made for fantasy.

But why simply fantasize? He can have this.

He offers the boy up a viper’s smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Arthur.”

Arthur shifts on his feet, all uncomfortable bluster. “And what do you want?”

Vortigern looks him up and down, lingering at the taper of his waist and the join of his legs. “You.”

Arthur barks out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not for sale, mate.”

Vortigern arches his brow and stares pointedly at the loose lacings of Arthur’s shirt and the tight casing of his breeches. “We are in a brothel, are we not?”

Arthur puffs himself up in what must be an attempt at intimidation. “I’m not on the menu. Them’s the rules. If you don’t like it, leave.

Those may be the rules, but if Vortigern has learned anything over the years, it’s that rules generally apply to other people. Vortigern will have Arthur whether he wants it or not. And there’s a part of him that relishes the thought of taking him unwillingly, of having his men hold Arthur down as he bucks and curses like a mustang not yet broken to the bit.

But then again, he’s enjoying this game and would like to see it continue.

He lets his hand stray to his coin purse, slips the drawstring back just enough to show the glimmer of gold. Real gold, not whatever debased cut-pieces they get in the lower city these days.

Arthur’s eyes widen the way all whores’ do when they see proper coin. He swallows roughly. “How much?”

Vortigern blinks slowly and knows he has him. “All of it.”

Arthur must think he’s got a good stone face, and perhaps it suffices for a go about with the lads over poker but he’d never stand a chance at court. Vortigern can tell exactly what he’s thinking: how much he can buy with that gold, how easy it would be to simply cut the purse away.

He drops his hand to the hilt of his sword to dissuade that last thought, though he’s almost hopeful Arthur will try. What he could do in the dungeons with this one…

Youthful recklessness wars with wariness, but the latter wins out. Arthur sighs and leans back against the wall. “Fine.”

There’s some sense in him, then. Good. This will be more fun that way. “Do you have a room, Arthur?” he drawls, “Or shall I take you against the bar?”

“You can follow me,” Arthur bites out, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs before stalking away. He doesn’t check to see if Vortigern is following him. It’s a nice display of calm composure, but the way his fists keep on clenching and unclenching at his sides disabuses that particular impression.

Vortigern is looking forward to seeing the façade crack further. He wants to see Arthur fall apart in his hands. With that delicious thought, he stands and walks towards the stairs, nodding once to the captain of his guards. The man nods back and settles into one of the tables to wait.

Vortigern climbs the rickety stairs carefully; the slats creak loudly with every step. At the top, Arthur is waiting for him with a candle and a drawn face.

“Lovely establishment you have,” he remarks, because needling Arthur is far too enjoyable to resist.

“Money’s harder to come by when you don’t suck the king’s cock,” Arthur snaps, gesturing at Vortigern’s uniform.

Oh, if only he knew! “Just everyone else’s, then?” he says, keeping his voice light. Perhaps he’ll have his men swing by later and arrest Arthur on some flimsy pretext, have him suck his cock in the throne room itself.

Arthur flushes and stalks down the hall. He jerks one of the doors open, holding it with ill grace as Vortigern sweeps into the room. Vortigern lets his shoulder brush against Arthur’s chest as he walks by. Arthur twitches away from him before he can stop himself. Delightful.

Arthur slams the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, staring at the floor. Then he’s looking up at Vortigern with a decisive nod. “Right then. No marking, no rough play.”

Vortigern nods earnestly, already thinking how beautiful his fingerprints will look bruised into the boy’s hips. “Of course.”

Arthur’s eyes are guarded. “Fine then. Well, get on with it.”

Vortigern rolls back on his heels in mock dismay “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he purrs. “Is that how you treat a paying customer? A whore that mouths off is a poor whore indeed, in more ways than one.”

Arthur bristles. “I’m not a-“ he cuts himself off, lips pursed and a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Fine,” he says again, more quietly, with none of his former heat.

And then it’s like a candle has been lit in the dark, so quick and startling is the change. Arthur’s gazing up at Vortigern with none of his previous rancor. His eyes are so very blue through the veil of his golden lashes, and there’s just a hint of a smile on his lips. “How may I serve you?”

“Come here.”

Arthur steps close, their chests all but touching. And then his eyes are fluttering shut and his face is angling upwards as he presses a soft kiss against Vortigern’s lips.

Vortigern raises his hands to caress Arthur’s face. Beneath the leather of his gloves he can feel the scrape of youthly stubble. He kisses in return, languid and gentle, until Arthur’s stiffness has bled away and he’s relaxed in Vortigern’s embrace. Until it’s too late to get away.

As soon as Arthur parts his lips, Vortigern deepens the kiss, biting and sucking and taking every inch Arthur gives. Arthur makes a surprised sound and Vortigern swallows it. He moves his hands from Arthur’s jawbones, clasping them around his neck and tightening, until Arthur is gasping for breath, protesting-

Vortigern kisses him through it all. He keeps his eyes open and thus he sees it, the moment Arthur breaks and forgets about the bag of coin he’s been promised, gives into his panic in truth. He starts struggling, panting, his cheeks red and his eyes wild as he bucks and pushes like a trapped animal.

Vortigern pulls back and shoves him hard against the chest; he topples to the floor in a heap. As Arthur struggles for his breath back, Vortigern places the spiked steel tip of his boot against the soft pillar of his neck. Vortigern can feel Arthur’s panicked heartbeat just beneath his skin. “Backing out already? They say that about whores, no honor.”

“I didn’t- I didn’t agree to that-“

“Apologies.” Vortigern lets out a mild laugh. “I’d thought you were a man enough to handle it. You are of course free to leave at any time without your coin. But my men were promised an hour in the bar, and they might become… irate.”

Arthur shudders. Even if he’s usually just hired muscle, he’ll have seen what happens when kingsmen get surly.  “How do you want me?” he says at last, his voice leaden.

Every way. Every night. Vortigern takes a seat on the edge of the bed and spreads his legs apart. “On your knees, to start”

Arthur obeys, scooting closer to kneel between Vortigern’s legs. The posture puts to show the broad muscles of his thighs and the bulge between them beneath the rough muslin of his trousers.

Vortigern itches to strip Arthur bare and have him right then, but there will be time for that. There will be time for whatever he wishes.

Smiling, he reaches out a gloved hand, running it through Arthur’s hair and then gently pressing Arthur’s head forward so that his temple rests against the inseam of Vortigern’s knee.

Arthur lets his eyes flutter closed and inhales roughly. He raises a hand with the jerky motions of an automaton, and then he’s undoing the silver buckle of Vortigern’s belt and fumbling at the black seed pearls of his tunic. He hesitates at the clasp of the breeches, until Vortigern taps him sharply on the temple with his index finger. “I don’t have all day, boy.”

Arthur’s nostrils thin. “Yes, sir.” And oh, is it delightful, to see this proud creature on his knees. And if he pretends this Arthur is Uther’s son in truth, more delightful still. He finds himself grinning. “You sound like a cheap southern whore. The taint is in your voice.”

A muscle works in Arthur’s jaw but otherwise he does not respond. He undoes the clasp of Vortigern’s trousers, and then he’s pulling out Vortigern’s cock, already half erect and flushed ruddy.

Vortigern swallows at the feeling of Arthur’s fingertips, spider-faint, skating over the shaft. “Suck,” he grits out, and when Arthur is slow to comply he twists his gloved fingers in those golden curls and yanks his head closer, eliciting a bit-off yelp.

Arthur licks his lips, plush and pink, and then he’s opening his mouth and taking Vortigern’s cock inch by inch. It feels like he’s sinking into paradise and he bites back a moan and the wet heat of it. He hits the back of Arthur’s throat and Arthur swallows around him, his tongue laving up and down the underside of his cock.

 Vortigern lets out a shudder. “And you claimed you weren’t a whore,” he says, stroking Arthur’s hair. “You suck cock like you were bred to it.”

Arthur makes a sound of protest; Vortigern retaliates by rocking forward, fucking Arthur’s mouth like it’s a hole to be used. God, but it feels good. He lets his head fall back as he ruts languidly, enslaved to the feel of Arthur swallowing around him.

There’s a candlelit glimmer at the crease of Arthur’s eyes- tears he hasn’t allowed to fall and oh, Vortigern could come from that alone. A few more thrusts, a yank of those pretty curls: that’s all it would take. But he isn’t a young man, and he has a better use for his spend than in Arthur’s mouth. He wants to defile him utterly, own all of him and brand him from the inside out.

He pulls out roughly, letting his wet cock slap against Arthur’s spit-shined lips and slack jaw. “Up. Undress and bend over the table.”

Arthur stumbles to his feet. “There’s a bed-“

Vortigern offers him a soft smile. “You aren’t worth a bed. You’re lucky not to be fucked in the yard with the pigs.”

Arthur looks torn between tears and rage, but his eyes go to Vortigern’s coin purse and both parties know he has no choice at all. He rips his clothing off with clumsy fingers, hurling it into a pile like it’s wronged him. He’s probably imagining doing the same to Vortigern. Ah well, one can’t always get what one wants. It’s a good lesson for him to learn; really, Vortigern is doing him a favor. Once he’s fully naked he shifts over to the table with ill grace and bends himself down, ass in the air. Every muscle is drawn as tight as a bowstring.

Vortigern doesn’t bother disrobing: he’s too eager to sample Arthur’s flesh, and besides, who knows what filth he’d get on his clothes if he put them on the bed or the table. His boots on the baseboards are all the contact with the brothel he cares for, other than Arthur himself, of course. And even then, he can always have Arthur lick them clean when they’re done here.

He steps forward and leans down to cover Arthur’s back with his chest. He takes a moment to savor the contrast: Arthur’s bare flesh, smooth and fair and dusted with the lightest scattering of golden hair beneath his own body, still fully clad in black velvet and leather. There’s a poetry to it.

He lets his gloved fingers drag over Arthur’s back, swirling over the knobs of his spine as they go lower, lower, finally slipping between the cheeks of his ass. Arthur jerks at the first light touch of leather against his hole.

“Oil, Arthur?”

“To your left,” he bites out, and indeed, there’s a small glass vial just within reach. He picks it up and uncorks it before letting a generous pour coat the fingers of his right glove. He has other pairs of gloves, after all.

He replaces the vial and presses his two fingers in, enjoying the way Arthur’s body shudders around the intrusion. He takes his time opening him up in silence, listening for all the little sounds that Arthur tries so hard to deny him. Even now he has a rigid pride to him, in the way he holds his back, in the way he bites his lip white so that only the faintest of grunts escape.

This pride- it reminds him of Uther.

Suddenly he no longer wishes to go slow, to treat Arthur kindly or fairly. The world is not kind or fair, best he learns that early. He pulls his fingers out abruptly and presses his cock in without warning.

Arthur can’t keep in his cry this time, and his hands move to scrabble at the wood of the table as Vortigern sinks in to the hilt slowly, unrelentingly. He gives Arthur no time to adjust or accommodate to the intrusion, he pulls back out and thrusts in again, and again, and again. He sets a hammering pace, bucking violently into Arthur, his fingers bruising vises on his bare hips. And still Arthur is holding himself together- even in this, dignified. Kingly.

With a snarl Vortigern thrusts his hand around the join of their bodies to find Arthur’s cock. By the heavens, he will make Arthur fall apart. He will wreck that resolve into pieces on the floor. He begins to jack Arthur off in time with his own thrusts, so that each thrust shoves Arthur into the tight grip of his oiled glove.

And with a cry, Arthur is coming, shaking apart beneath him.

The sight of Arthur’s spend, white on the black of his gloves, is enough to send him over the edge. He pounds himself to climax as Arthur hangs limp beneath him, unable to do anything but take it.

After his heartbeat slows and his breathing evens, he picks himself up and fixes the clasp of his trousers. He removes his ruined glove and tosses it at Arthur, who is now slumped on the floor, staring at his hands. The glove hits him across the face. “A present for you, to remember me by.”

Arthur won’t look at him. “I don’t think I’ll need anything to remember.”

He won’t, because Vortigern will be coming back, again and again, until he’s exorcised all of his demons with Arthur’s help. “Even so,” he says, tossing the coinpurse on the floor as he strolls out of the room.


End file.
